The Cloven Horn
by juna-starrider
Summary: Faramir must bring the news of his brother's death to his father.


This is my first stab at any writing and I haven't read the books in a year (my parents took them away), so any comments about spelling of LOTR names, grammar or inconsistencies in plot line are VERY welcome.

THE CLOVEN HORN 

The sun was setting in the west, turning Pellenor Fields into a deep rich colour of scarlet.  The first of the spring birds were already in their burrows, as well as the hares and deer.  In fact, the whole of the wide expanse was almost silent.

Almost, with the sole exception being a lone horse and rider that trotted through the peaceful panorama. From even ten yards away, you would not know who the rider was, even though he was famous among the whole of Gondor.  That was the way he liked it.

Faramir, the steward's younger son, bit his lip and pulled his cloak tighter around his body. Though it was spring, the nights were still cold, and a chill wind blew uninterrupted across the field.  It was doubtful that Faramir was even aware of his self-protective actions, simply because his mind was on a more important matter, a matter that he simply could not deal with much longer.  

His hand stroked idly at the velvet covering that lay upon his lap.  The velvet that covered all that remained of his elder brother, Boromir.  It was the Horn of Gondor, a heirloom that had passed through generations to each steward's heir.  Father to son, father to son, and so on.  It was used for summoning the armies of the west in times of need.  Boromir had used it on many occasions, although mostly for announcing his departure and arrival to Gondor when setting out into the unknown.

Faramir remembered the last time Boromir had blown the horn, just as he was leaving to go to Rivendale, to find the answer to the dream both brothers had.

_Wait a minute, _thought Faramir, _there was another time after that._

It had only been a few days before, a week maybe, when Faramir had heard it sounding out from the north.  Faramir was glad, for it had been almost a year since he had heard from his brother, and of course, was worried about him.  The thought never occurred to him that his brother had blown the horn for reasons other than to announce his return to the land he loved.  

It had been that night when Faramir had bedded down for the night with the rest of the rangers that the dream (or was it a nightmare?) came to him.

He was standing on the edge of the river Anduin, when a boat, slipping silently passed in front of him and stopped.  Faramir, whose eyes had seen many dead men, who had been had experienced death so much that he had grown used to it, now stared in horror at the body that lay in the swan-headed boat.

It was his brother, the one he had looked up to and loved from the day he could love another person.  Boromir lay there; his shirt pierced and bloodied in three places, much like arrow wounds.  At his feet lay his metal shield, and at his side was his sword.  

It was his face though, which scared Faramir the most.  Although it was almost certain it was the wounds had killed him, there was no pain or anguish on his face.  Instead he wore a peaceful expression, one that one might expect on a man who had died in old age and had a very fulfilling life.

But there was one thing missing. At first Faramir could not think of what it was, then realised that his brother's horn was not on him.  Faramir was going to cry out at his brother, to ask him what happened, when the boat slipped silently downriver, and disappeared into the mist.

He awoke early that morning and slipped towards the river. He walked upstream until he recognised that this was the same place as in the dream.  Faramir strained his eyes to look for the swan boat, but none came.  

_Perhaps it was merely a dream,_ he thought with the air of a man who hopes for miracle.

Then, something glittering caught his eye.  Deep within the marsh stalks, it shone faintly, as if it was trying to get Faramir's attention, but was very weak.  He then sloshed his way through the reeds, slipping several times, until he had reached the thing.

He picked it up and stopped breathing.  Most likely his heart had stopped beating too.  It was the final piece of the puzzle, the Horn of Gondor.  It was cut in two pieces,  but someone had taken the cord that it hung by and wrapped the pieces together.  

Faramir stood there as the sun came up over the far off mountains in the east.  He did not cry, for one reason he was like his father, who had never cried, not even at his wife's early death.  Another reason was that the shock and suddenness of his brother's departure from his world had frozen his emotions like an icy blast.  

He returned to the company, filthy and wet.  He told his men to make for Henneth Annûn.  He told them he needed to go back to Minas Tirith.  His men did not question him, for they were loyal.  The only look he got was from one of the lieutenants, who quickly understood the need in his eyes, if not the reason.

_And now comes the hardest part, _his mind told him, _telling your father._

He did not know how his father would react.  He did not know even how to tell his father.  The only thing he was certain of that he would not mention the dream.  His father had always resented him for his habit to base his life on dreams.  Not to mention the fact that it was his own dream that was the reason Boromir went on this fateful quest.

The field had already turned into a deep purple by the time he approached the gate of Minas Tirith. Although the light was almost gone, the city still shone with a pale glow which seemed to come from within.  

It took him a long time to reach up to the top of the city, even by horse. A memory of his childhood was pulled into his consciousness.  When he and Boromir were younger, they would have races from the gates up to the tree.  Of course Boromir, being older and stronger, would beat Faramir every time, until the time when Faramir was ten and won by half a minute.  It took Faramir a couple of years to realise that his brother had let him win because he had seen the look of disappointment in Faramir's eyes each time he lost and wanted to help him feel better.

Faramir then realised what he was thinking and put that memory back into the dark corner of his mind.  He knew this was not the time to think of his brother.

He got off his horse near the top and took it into the stable himself.  It seemed that the beast knew what his mind and heart were going through and gently whinnied and nuzzled him to comfort him.  He gently stroked her mane and spoke gently to her in a nonsense tongue.

He grabbed the velvet package and taking a deep breath, he walked the rest of the way to the steward's hall.  He knew father would be annoyed to see him.  Hadn't he just left two weeks ago to collect information on Mordor?  He then knocked the door to his father's study.

"Who is it?" came his father's gruff reply to his knock.

_Oh Eru, _Faramir chided himself, _I have disturbed him._

"It is Faramir, My Lord," he replied aloud.  It had been a long time since he had called his father by what he felt he should call him.  That title would be "father", but Denethor had always wanted respect from his sons.

"Come in," his father voice came back,  "I hope you have some important news for you to be bothering me two weeks after you left."

Faramir winced slightly as he came into the room.  His father always seemed to be angry with him, no matter what he tried to do.  Boromir on the other hand, seemed to never get chastised for any thing.  Faramir was not jealous of his brother, for he felt Boromir deserved such things, considering the risks he took to serve his people.

"Well," his father said, "what news do you bring?"

Faramir took another deep breath.  There was no turning back now.  Not that there was ever a chance to turn back.

"A week ago my company was on the Anduin when we heard the Horn of Gondor," he spoke without emotion, as if he was reporting the number of orcs his company had killed.

Denethor smiled at the sound of this news.  It was a smile that was rarely seen by anyone these days, not since his favourite son had left in the late summer of the past year.

"Did you meet him? Was he well? Where is he?" the steward asked impatiently.

"No, my Lord, I did not meet him. But," he said unwrapping the velvet off the horn, "I found this on the shores of the Anduin the next morning."  

His father stared blankly at the cloven horn lying among the fold of the finest red velvet.  He did not move or say anything.  Faramir was afraid his father would not believe him and that he would have to tell him about the dream.  The dream was his own and he didn't want to share it with a non-believer.

At length Faramir ventured a small word to the frozen steward. "Father?"  he asked tentatively.

The steward slowly looked up at his son, got up slowly from his chair, walked closer to Faramir and without warning, slapped him.  There was a burning pain on the side of Faramir's face as he brought his head back to face his father.  He did not cry out or even put his hand to his face for he was partially shocked at suddenness of the attack.

"I know why you did that My Lord," he spoke calm and clearly, and avoided using the title that would remind Denethor of his lost son, "you would have done it to any one who came with this news.  I myself would do the same thing.  I grieve for him father," he continued.  He had never spoken like this to his father, like he was the father and Denethor was his son, "I didn't want to believe that it was true, that Boromir was gone, but I have given up hope."

His father looked at him for a while and then grumbled almost inaudibly, "get out.  I do not want to see you unless it is of the utmost importance."  

Faramir, realising his father needed to be alone for a long time bowed, and left.  As he descended down the steps to the stable, Faramir glanced back.  Through the window of his father's study, he saw a pale ghostly light filter through.  He did not go back to check on his father, fearing his wrath, but continued down and rubbing his burning cheek.  

_It is now time to do the work of two brothers,_ his mind said, _be ready for the worst_

The End 


End file.
